Man of Constant Sorrow
by Tez
Summary: There is more to James Cavanaugh than meets the eye.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me. I thought this story belonged to me, but I'm starting to think it's got a mind of its own.

A/N: This story has been bouncing around in my head for years and years, ever since they introduced James Cavanaugh's character into the show. What if he wasn't just a fugitive from the law? What if he wasn't really as crazy as he seemed? What if there was far more to James Cavanaugh than met the eye? The story picks up right before the end of 'Pandora's Trunk, Part II', and takes the place of 'O Brother, Where Art Thou'.

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_James_

_------------------------------------_

The door slams open and Detective Hoyt bursts through it, Max Cavanaugh on his heels.

"Whoa," Hoyt gasps, obviously shocked at the scene. His gaze first falls on my father's dead body, and then he spots Jordan sprawled across the couch with her head in my lap. He moves purposefully toward us but stops short when he catches sight of the guns in my belt. His hand flies to his holster and I sigh in thinly veiled disgust.

"You can stand down, Detective," I inform him, my tone weary. "If I were going to shoot you, I'd have done it already."

"Let her go, James," Max demands, fear for Jordan's safety clear in his expression. "You don't want to hurt Jordan."

"That may be the first smart thing I've ever heard you say," I say, trying to keep a lid on my temper. I know I'm not exactly his favorite person, but this is ridiculous.

"James –" Max begins again, and I interrupt him.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I snap, setting my fingers lightly against Jordan's pulse again. It's still strong, and her eyelids flutter when my hand touches her neck. "I didn't hurt her. She went to see Malden and he drugged her."

"If he drugged her," Hoyt says slowly, taking another step closer to us, "then she needs to go to the hospital."

"Which is why I called an ambulance," I reply as Jordan begins to stir. "To tell you the truth, I thought they'd get here before you." Returning my attention to my sister, I move my hand up to stroke her cheek, watching her fight her way back to consciousness.

"Hey, Sis," I say softly as she blinks up at me, finally awake. "How're you feeling?"

"Head hurts," she mutters, reaching up to rub her forehead. "I'm thirsty."

"Side effects of the methylhexital," I identify for all three of them, giving Max a nod. "You should get her a glass of water."

"And a tylenol," Jordan adds, groaning.

"Not a good idea," I tell her gently. "No analgesics until the methylhexital is all out of your system. It's bad for your liver."

"Not having them is bad for my head," Jordan grumbles, but the only response she gets from me is a tired smile as my hand brushes her hair away from her face. The fact that she's complaining means she's doing noticeably better than she was ten minutes ago, which is reassuring, but all the complaining in the world isn't going to get her any tylenol.

Sirens from downstairs signal the arrival of the ambulance. Hoyt looks instinctively toward the window, clearly wondering whether the sirens are ambulance or police, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. There's a subtle but distinct difference among ambulance, fire, and police sirens, varying by district and county but still unmistakable to the trained ear. The fact that Hoyt is either too dumb or too ignorant to know one from another is a strike against him in my book.

Of course, the fact that he's spent the past two years chasing after my sister like a dog after a car is a much bigger strike.

The EMTs have the courtesy to knock on the kicked-in door, hanging uselessly from its upper hinges courtesy of Hoyt, before charging into the room. The dead body on the floor gives them a moment's pause, but when I call them over they abandon my father's corpse to come and take care of my sister.

Tersely, I give them the gist of what's happened, and they give Jordan a cursory once-over before loading her onto a gurney. I expect her token protest, but I'm surprised when she grabs my hand and refuses to let go.

"Come with me, James," she pleads, and I'm sure stronger men than me have been suckered in by that tone. Unfortunately, I've created a bit of a situation here, and I'm going to have to clean it up somehow before I can go back to playing nursemaid to Jordan.

"You'll be fine, Sis," I promise her. "Max here is going to go with you, all right? I've got some explaining to do. I'll catch up with you later."

Max Cavanaugh clearly doesn't like that idea, but Hoyt waves him off, still watching me.

"I can handle him," Hoyt promises, and I'm not sure whose snort of disbelief is louder, mine or Max's. Jordan makes an irritated face at both of them, and I wonder if she's forgotten that the last time I saw Max Cavanaugh I tied him to a chair and pistol-whipped him. He's got reason to distrust me.

"I'll be good," I promise, entirely for Jordan's peace of mind. I wouldn't object to Hoyt developing reservations about taking me on alone, and I'm actively in favor of Max Cavanaugh having a healthy fear of me. It'll make both our lives easier.

Jordan accepts that, and with a last mistrustful look back at me, Max follows her and the EMTs out of the room.

Hoyt and I are left staring at each other. The stark terror on his face and belated scramble for his service weapon when I reach for the two guns tucked into my belt are almost enough to draw a laugh from me, but when my eyes fall on Malden's gun in my hand, the laugh dies on my lips.

I set the guns down together on Jordan's overstuffed couch, my second-favorite Smith and Wesson .38 Special next to Malden's police-issue 9mm. They look out of place there, two sleek instruments of death lying between a bright purple throw pillow and the crumpled cover of a TV guide that has clearly seen better days.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Detective," I tell Hoyt. I don't have to look to know that he's breathing a sigh of relief, and I wonder if he really would have had the guts to shoot me.

"You're going to have to come with me, please," he says, and it would be more convincing if he didn't say it in a tone that was more maitre'd than law enforcement. Nonetheless, the game is over now. It's time for me to face up to the consequences.

I turn to face him again, closing my eyes briefly as the pounding in my head intensifies. The adrenaline of the past half-hour is wearing off, as is my last dose of the stimulants I've been taking for the past several days, and the reality of the situation is starting to set in. Hoyt is going to arrest me and take me down to the local police precinct, and then I'm going to have to explain why I shot and killed their chief of police, who also happens to be my biological father.

As I hold out my wrists to Hoyt to be handcuffed, not bothering to offer even a pretense of resisting arrest, it occurs to me that, like Jordan's TV guide, I've seen better days.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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_Woody_

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"So, James, why don't you tell me about Captain Malden?"

"James," he replies calmly. I frown, not sure what the response means.

"James," I repeat, putting emphasis on the other man's name. "Why did you shoot Captain Malden?"

"Cavanaugh," James replies, clasping his hands neatly on the table and giving me an expectant look. I feel like I've somehow missed something important. And isn't his last name Horton? Whatever. I'll call him anything I have to in order to figure out what the hell is going on.

"Okay. Mr. Cavanaugh, why did you shoot Captain Malden?"

"James Cavanaugh."

"Why did you shoot Malden?"

"Cavanaugh…James Cavanaugh."

I narrow my eyes at him, now thoroughly annoyed.

"Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing –"

"And you're the best detective they had to offer?" James inquires, leaning back in his chair and giving me a bored look. "Well, your lack of military service is very obvious, Detective Hoyt."

"I don't get it."

"I can see that."

I continue to glare at him and he sighs, folding his arms across his chest and putting his feet up on the table.

"I'd give you my rank and serial number, too, but I'm just not feeling too chatty today," he informs me. "You'll have to make do with my name."

"So you're not going to talk to me?"

James glances over at the two-way mirror, pointing at me. "He catches on pretty quick," he informs our observers dryly before returning his attention to me. "I want my phone call."

We have a stare-down. Unsurprisingly, I lose. I point to the phone at the back of the room, defeated, and he gives me a mock salute as I head for the door.

I pause long enough to give the officer outside the door to the interrogation room specific instructions to make sure no one goes in without my say so, my pride a little stung by James's flat refusal to tell me anything. When I reach the observation room, I'm surprised to find Jordan there, looking dazed as she leans against the far wall behind her father and Renee Walcott, her gaze fixed on her brother through the two-way mirror. He's holding the phone receiver, but he dials two numbers, hesitates, and then hangs up. Crossing back over to his chair, he sits down again and glares at the phone. I don't have any time to wonder why, though, because Walcott is speaking.

"Nice try," she tells me, her voice thick with irony. "Something tells me you're not going to get through to him." She turns to Jordan, frowning at her. "Was he in the military?"

"I don't know." Jordan sounds distant, and I can hear the guilt in her tone. I can't imagine how she must feel, coming out of a drugged haze to realize that her long-lost brother has been arrested for the murder of our police chief. "He didn't do anything wrong."

Walcott's eyebrows rise so far at this that they nearly reach her hairline. "Tom Malden is _dead_, Dr. Cavanaugh, and you don't think that his murderer did anything wrong?"

Jordan blinks several times in rapid succession, and I don't know if her vision is blurry from the methylhexital or if she's trying not to cry. Either way, I really want to ignore everything going on around us and go over there and just hold her for a while. I don't think I've ever seen her look so fragile.

"Look, Jordan," Max says, finally speaking up, "he may be your brother, but he's got to answer for what he's done."

"He was only protecting me!"

"So your brother, who is wanted in connection with the murder of another police officer in 1979, committed murder again to protect you from the chief of police? Somehow I don't believe -"

-----------------------

_Jordan_

----------------------

I clench my hands into fists, unable to listen to one more word of Walcott's diatribe against my brother. Just when I think I'm going to lose it altogether and take a swing at the district attorney, the door to the interrogation room opens and a woman I've never seen before breezes through the door. Walcott cuts herself off in mid-sentence, staring in disbelief.

"Who the hell is that?"

I'm wondering the same thing, but it has more to do with my brother's reaction to her presence than with how she managed to get into the interrogation room. When she steps inside the room, he looks up wearily, clearly expecting to go another round with Woody. It takes him a fraction of a second to realize who she is, and then he's on his feet, standing at what would be full military attention if there weren't a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Hey, stranger," she says softly, leaning back against the closed door to the room. My brother's smile breaks through as his posture relaxes, his grin changing him from rough-and-tumble to ruggedly handsome, and I realize belatedly that I've never seen him smile.

"You found me."

He doesn't sound particularly surprised; in fact, his tone is more rueful than anything. She smiles in response, tilting her head to the side and regarding him with amusement.

"I always know where you are."

"What is going on?" Walcott demands, dragging my attention away from my brother and his acquaintance. "What the hell are they playing at? And who the hell is _she_?"

I don't know who she is, but I'm guessing that her presence is a good thing for James and a bad thing for Walcott's case against him. The woman looks like she walked straight off the set of Mission Impossible in her black cargo pants, combat boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt with what looks like a federal seal on the front. When she turns her back briefly to the two-way mirror to grab a chair, I see that 'ATF' is emblazoned across the back of her shirt. The gun holstered at her side only adds to the image, and when she drops gracefully into the metal folding chair I catch sight of the gold badge hanging on a chain around her neck.

As far as ATF agents go, she's by far the most attractive one I've ever seen. Her blond hair is pulled back in a tight braid, a few loose curls springing free to frame her face. It's a nice face, her bright green eyes set above high cheekbones and soft pink lips, marred only by a dark bruise near her hairline. The medical examiner in me glances reflexively at the woman's hands, noting several scrapes on her knuckles. Whoever gave her that bruise didn't walk away unscathed.

She's now sitting at the table next to James, chin propped up on one fist as she regards him.

"I have to admit, though," she adds, sounding amused, "that I _am_ getting kind of tired of finding you in police custody."

"Makes me easier to locate," he offers, and she laughs.

"One of these days, you're going to go on vacation and come back in one piece, without needing to be tracked down and bailed out, and I'll die of shock."

"I'll endeavor not to, then," he replies, his expression of faux innocence belied by the twinkle in his eyes. "If you die of shock, then who'll do my laundry?"

The swat she aims at him is clearly half-hearted, since just by looking at her I can tell that if she'd really wanted to hit him he'd be unconscious by now. He dodges it with a grin and she ducks her head, leaning down to grab something off the floor.

"Fill these out," she instructs him, pulling a sheaf of papers and a pen out of the small duffel bag sitting next to her chair, "and buy me dinner to apologize for making me cut my mission short to come down here and rescue you, and after that maybe we'll talk about your laundry."

He stays wisely quiet about the 'rescue' comment, opening the file and scanning the papers inside.

"Initial by the Xs?" he guesses, and she nods.

"And sign on the dotted lines," she adds. "I have to sign off too, and then I'll fax it back to Todd for his John Hancock."

"Good old Todd," James murmurs, something in his voice that I can't readily identify. When the woman rolls her eyes, I realize what it is. He sounds jealous.

"You're such a _guy_," she accuses. He snorts, the noise somewhere between amusement and irritation, as he flips through the papers he's holding. Once he's scanned and signed them, he hands them back to her.

"So you finally noticed I'm a guy, huh? I feel special."

"Neanderthal," she accuses, snatching the pen out of his hand and turning her attention to the forms.

"Princess," he rejoins.

"Jerk."

"Brat."

"Chauvinist."

"Feminist – hey, what's that?"

She looks up, confused, and he cups her chin in his palm, turning her head so that he can get a good look at the bruise on her forehead.

"It's nothing."

"If it were nothing, I wouldn't be able to see it." He traces the outline of the bruise with his fingertips, frowning. "How'd it happen?"

She shrugs. "At the gym."

He gives her a knowing look. "The sparring gym?"

"Maybe."

"I told Wilcox that the next time he laid a hand on you, I'd kill him –"

"Could you maybe not threaten anyone _else_ with homicide? At least until I get the current set of charges against you dropped?"

"You're no fun."

"Well, unlike you, I'm on the clock. Those of us at the Joint Terrorism Task Force do not have a sense of humor of which we are aware."

"You're such a pain," he sighs, leaning back in his chair and giving her an appraising look. "Some days I can't believe I married you."

"Some days I can't believe I let you," she retorts, pushing the papers toward him again. "You missed one."

"Where?"

"Right there." She points, raising an eyebrow at him. "Getting nearsighted in your old age?"

"Watch it, woman," James says, mock-threatening, but none of us are paying attention anymore. I look at my father, who looks at Walcott, who looks at Woody, who looks back at me and voices what we're all thinking.

"They're _married_?"


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If the show were mine, Nigel would've been getting a whole lot more action.

* * *

_Jordan_

* * *

I'm still staring in disbelief at James and the woman sitting next to him. Woody gets over his shock before I do and comes over to whisper to me without Walcott overhearing.

"Jordan? I thought your brother was a fugitive. What's going on? Does he work for the ATF?"

I finally look away from the tableaux on the other side of the two-way mirror to blink at him.

"I have no idea. I never thought –" _Never thought he might have a real life?_ the nagging voice in the back of my head demands. _Never thought James might mean something to someone other than you? _"I don't know," I finish lamely.

I'm saved from further awkwardness by the shrill ring of a cell phone. Walcott and Woody both glance reflexively down at their phones, but on the other side of the glass, the blonde is answering hers.

"This is Ingram," she says, and on some level I'm not surprised that she doesn't go by 'Cavanaugh', despite the fact that she's married to James. For all I know, James may not use the surname either; he's probably got a dozen aliases. Woody found three different fake IDs in my brother's wallet, and I'm sure there are plenty more where those came from.

"That's good news," Ingram is saying into her phone. "Nice work, Jack…uh-huh. Nope, James and I are fine, thanks…no, I'd really prefer it if you didn't stage a reenactment of the Boston Tea Party as a distraction…no, no one's blowing anything up…yes, if we do, we'll call you…I know, I know, you're the king of demolitions. I'd be more impressed if you were the king of filing your PMA reports on time."

James snickers at this and then winces, and I surmise that Ingram probably kicked him under the table.

"Thanks, Jack. See you tomorrow."

She snaps the phone shut and immediately shoots a glare at James, which effectively quells whatever sardonic comment he was about to offer.

"How's Jack?" he asks instead, settling for 'interested and helpful' when I'm sure he wanted to shoot for 'obnoxious but lovable'. I'm beginning to realize that 'obnoxious but lovable' is my brother's usual state of existence.

"Mission complete," she says, clearly satisfied with the fact. "And our team actually didn't shoot any of the hostages, which is a good thing."

"Damn," James sighs, drumming his fingers on the table. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he shrugs. "That means I owe Jack a beer."

"I'd be wasting my breath with a lecture about illegal gambling or making light of life and death situations, right?"

"Right."

"Just checking." Ingram pauses, starts to say something else, and then stops abruptly. James notices her hesitation and shakes his head.

"You want to know what happened."

"I want to know what the party line is, James. Your word is the last word on this one."

There's no catch in her voice, no waver. She's clearly willing to take whatever version of events James gives her and back it up one hundred percent. From the expression on his face, he expected this, although he doesn't look particularly happy about it. It's his turn to pause, clearly considering his options.

"I want the truth out there for everyone to hear," he says finally. "Too many people have lied about this, about every part of it they could. People deserve the truth. My sister deserves the truth."

"Okay," says Ingram, leaning back in her chair even as I move forward, stepping past Woody and Walcott and my father to press my palms against the two-way mirror. I want to hear what James has to say. "Tell me."

He starts out slow, summing up his activities over the past few months, which mostly seem to entail casing my neighborhood, following me around, and generally skulking about like a character out of a Tom Clancy novel. I'm surprised to hear that he was in California when I was. He followed Woody and me to Herman Redding's place, and I have no doubt that if Woody hadn't shot Redding, James would have.

When he gets to the events of last Tuesday night, he hesitates, looking at the two-way mirror.

"I'm not sure my sister should hear this," he murmurs to Ingram, just loud enough for the speaker to pick up. "I mean, I want her to know everything, but…it's not a nice story, Evie. I know Jordan, and I know she's back there. She's going to hear it."

"You've told me about her," Ingram reminds him, and my eyes widen. He's told her about me? Told her what? Clearly it was something other than, you know, "Hey, you've got a sister-in-law." "If she doesn't hear it now, she'll just beat it out of you later."

"True," he agrees, still looking reluctant. "All right. She went to Malden's office to…you know, now that I think about it, I'm still not sure why she went. To threaten him, maybe. To get a better understanding of our…_convoluted_ family dynamic."

"Well put."

"While she was there, he drugged her."

"With what?"

"Methylhexital and scotch."

Ingram clucks her tongue. "Naughty, naughty. Methylhexital is a class-A controlled substance."

"Used by several terrorist cells in interrogations," James agrees.

"As far as NAIACO is concerned, you were officially off the hook for killing him as of right then," she informs him. "Use of any controlled substance –"

" – on a NAIACO agent or knowledgeable family member or associate for purposes of interrogation or torture allows appropriate interfering action by any NAIACO agent, with appropriateness of the action determined by a superior in the chain of command." He smiles at the startled look on her face. "Sometimes I listen when you talk."

"Such an obliging boy," she replies drolly. "As the AD for the Eastern Seaboard, I'm giving you the thumbs up."

"What's NAIACO?" Woody murmurs behind me. Walcott says something I half-hear, about North America and terrorism, but I'm busy watching James. He looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair, and Ingram has noticed it too.

"So you shot him in his office?" Ingram is asking.

"I didn't actually shoot him then," James hedges, and Ingram gives him a questioning look.

"Why not?"

"I observed the interrogation, and I would have shot him if it had looked like Jordan was going to reveal sensitive information."

"But she didn't?"

A proud smile crosses his face. "She didn't tell him a damn thing."

"Then she's definitely your sister," Ingram informs him tartly. "What happened next?"

"Malden had his driver take the both of them to her apartment; he was looking for me. I observed from the empty apartment next door."

"With what? Don't tell me you swiped a fiberoptic scope from Supply. Danziger will have you killed."

He looks sheepish. "I'd gone into the adjoining apartment the week before and drilled a hole in the wall."

"James Cavanaugh, king of low-tech surveillance. And then?"

"Jordan was completely out of it," he says evasively. "She probably won't remember anything that happened after they left his office."

"I don't need corroborating testimony," Ingram says calmly. "Your word is good enough for me."

He runs a hand through his hair again, obviously struggling with the words.

"I had a bead on him; if he'd tried to kill her, I could have taken him down before he had a chance to pull the trigger."

"But?"

"But he didn't." James sags back against his chair, looking weary. "He put down his gun and took his coat off. Then he took off her coat and dragged her over to the couch."

Ingram and I both hear the strange tone in his voice. She leans toward him and I shudder, a sudden flash of memory hitting me. Malden's hand is on my neck, holding me down; I swing my arm up blindly, trying to get him off of me, scratching him –

"He held her down with his hand on her throat. He –" James pauses, clearing his throat. "He started taking off her clothes. She woke up enough to try and push him away. I should've shot him then, I know, but I just – snapped."

"You were after Malden for information," Ingram murmurs, her voice soft and full of understanding. "If you'd killed him then, he wouldn't have been able to tell you anything."

"That's true, but it wasn't what I was thinking."

"So what were you thinking?"

A strangled laugh escapes him. "That she was my _sister_. That my father was trying to – to rape my sister. That's it. That's the last thing I remember thinking, and then I was in the apartment and I'd shot him." He hesitates, toying with Ingram's pen. "While he was dying, he admitted to killing my mother."

Ingram stills and so do I, both of us staring at my brother. Twenty-three years of wondering, of praying and fighting and searching for the truth, and here it is right in front of me.

"James…" she begins softly. He shakes his head.

"You know the funny thing? It didn't even seem that important anymore. Jordan was crying; that was all I could think about. All of the time and effort, all of those years of trying to prove that Malden killed my mother…less than five seconds of having to watch my little sister cry, and all I wanted was to make her pain go away. Nothing else mattered." He looks up at Ingram, a wry smile dancing across his face. "Thank God you aren't a crier. I would've had to kill myself years ago."

"That makes two of us," Ingram agrees. "What did you do then?"

"I helped Jordan put her shirt back on, and then I called the paramedics. And then I called you."

"Well, I'm glad I finally occurred to you as a good person to contact, since I _am_ your AD."

"Nag, nag, nag," he mutters, but when she pins him with a hard gaze, he backpedals. "I mean, 'Sorry, Honey, you know best.'"

"Better," she acknowledges with a half- smile, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "Jamie, are you…"

"I'm okay," he says simply, reaching up to squeeze her fingers. She nods, apparently taking his word for it.

"Okay," she agrees, sounding obscurely relieved as she stands, pressing a kiss to his forehead and reclaiming her pen from his grasp. "I'm going to fax this in. Hang tight for a few minutes?"

"Sure." James rubs his hands over his eyes. "Is Todd going to get me out of this?"

"Of course." She sounds offended that he'd even ask. "That's what we pay him for. And even if it weren't, _I'd _get you out of it."

As Ingram leaves the room, I realize suddenly that my knees have gone weak and I'm clinging to Woody's arm like it's a life preserver. He turns toward me, questioning, but his reflexes aren't fast enough to catch me as my legs give out entirely and I find myself sitting flat on the floor.

"Jordan," Woody breathes, dropping down next to me. "Jordan, are you okay?"

"I remember," I whisper, horrified. My eyes are wide open, but I'm not seeing the room in front of me. All I can see is my brother pulling Malden off of me. Malden tries to hit him and James nails him with a right hook. Malden reaches for his gun but James is faster, whipping out a handgun and shooting Malden in the stomach. Malden collapses and James takes his gun. Malden grabs James' hand, saying something I can't hear, but James shakes him off. Tucking both weapons into the waistband of his jeans, he comes over to the couch. I'm lying there with my shirt undone, trying to find the strength to sit up and crying like a baby. He sits down next to me, swiping clumsily at the tears on my cheeks.

'Don't cry, Jordan,' he says softly, reaching down to re-button my shirt. 'Please don't cry. He can't hurt you anymore. I'll protect you.'

"Jordan?" Woody demands again, and I snap out of it.

"He saved me," I choke out through my tears. "Malden – I couldn't – he drugged me and I couldn't move. I tried to fight him, but he was on top of me…but James came and he saved me. And my mother - Malden - oh, God, he killed my mother!"

"Shh," he soothes me, wrapping his arms around me, and in his voice I can hear stark terror competing with relief that I survived. "Shh. It's okay, baby. You're safe now. I've got you, Jordan, and I won't let anyone hurt you."

"You have to let him go," I plead, burying my face against his shoulder. "It's my fault. You can't arrest James. He did it for me."

"It's not your fault, Jordan. None of this is your fault," he says firmly, tightening his hold on me. He glances over at Walcott, who's still glued to the scene in the interrogation room, and my father, who's standing a few feet away looking helpless, and lowers his voice. "And between you and me? With an international antiterrorism organization on his side, your brother could have blown up the entire precinct and we still wouldn't be able to prosecute him. I think Walcott's going to have to let him off."


End file.
